The Forrester mansion was quiet that morning, the kind of silence that carried a weight heavier than words. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, reflecting off family portraits that told decades of triumphs, betrayals, and reconciliations. Eric Forrester sat in his favorite chair, a sketchpad open on his lap, his once-steady hand trembling slightly from age and the recent health scares that had shaken everyone. He was lost in thought — about his legacy, about love, and about the people who would carry his name long after he was gone. That’s when Remy walked in, clutching a faded envelope in his hands, his face pale but determined. “Grandpa,” he said softly, his voice breaking the silence, “my mom gave me this letter.”

Eric looked up, his warm but weary eyes narrowing as he saw the emotion written all over his grandson’s face. “A letter?” he asked gently. “From Felicia?” Remy nodded, his hands shaking as he passed it over. “She told me… when the time was right, I’d know what to do with it. I think that time is now.” Eric took the letter, the familiar handwriting instantly recognizable — Felicia’s elegant cursive, filled with grace but always hiding something beneath the surface. He hesitated before opening it, sensing that whatever it contained could change everything. “Do you want me to read it alone?” he asked. Remy shook his head. “No. I need to be here. You both deserve the truth.”

Eric unfolded the paper, and as he began to read, his expression shifted from curiosity to disbelief, then to heartbreak. The words inside were more than a confession — they were a revelation. “My dearest father,” it began. “By the time you read this, Remy will be old enough to understand the truth about who he really is — and what I’ve kept from you all these years. I’ve carried the guilt for too long, and you deserve to know the truth before I disappear for good.” Eric’s hand trembled as he read on. “Remy’s father is not who you think. I told everyone it was a man from Paris, someone who left before Remy was born. But the truth is far more complicated — and much closer to home.”

Remy’s breath caught in his throat. He had always wondered why his mother avoided certain topics, why she flinched when certain names were mentioned. “Keep reading,” he whispered. Eric continued, his voice unsteady. “Years ago, before I left Los Angeles for Europe, I had a brief relationship with someone who should have been off limits — someone from our circle. When I found out I was pregnant, I panicked. I thought the truth would destroy everything. So I ran, and I kept Remy’s father’s identity a secret to protect everyone involved.” Eric’s voice broke as he reached the next line: “Remy’s father… is Ridge.”

For a moment, the entire world seemed to stop. The sound of the clock ticking in the background grew deafening. Remy froze, his eyes wide in shock. “What?” he whispered. Eric stared at the letter, re-reading the line as if hoping it would change. “Ridge…?” he repeated softly. “My own son?” The words felt like glass in his throat. “That means…” Remy stammered, trying to make sense of it, “you’re not just my grandfather. You’re my great-grandfather.” The realization hit both of them like a tidal wave. Generations, bloodlines, loyalties — all tangled in a revelation that shattered the foundation of the family itself.

Eric set the letter down, his hands trembling uncontrollably. “My God,” he murmured, “Felicia kept this from all of us.” His voice filled with grief, not anger. “She was always so strong, so independent. I never knew she was carrying something like this.” Remy’s eyes filled with tears. “She told me once that the Forresters were cursed by secrets,” he said quietly. “I thought she was talking about you and Grandma Stephanie. I didn’t realize she meant herself.” Eric reached out, placing a shaky hand on his grandson’s shoulder — or rather, his great-grandson’s. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, Remy,” he said softly. “You didn’t ask for any of this. But we can’t hide it anymore.”